


Love, J

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gender or Sex Swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky writes a series of letters to his wife Stevie during the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, J

 

 

This work is inspired by this fanart by [noonrema](http://blog.naver.com/noonrema/220008576808).  It's an amazing piece of artwork.

 

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

April 11, 1942

Hey doll,

Don’t roll your eyes at me. I know you frown whenever I call you that, but don’t think I miss that little smile you get as you turn away. I don’t know how quickly my letters will reach you, but I know I’ll write to you every chance I get. I only said goodbye to you yesterday, but I already miss you so much it hurts. I have your picture with me. Even though I won’t hear your laugh for a while, at least I’ll have your smile with me until I get home.

I hope you won’t get too lonely in that apartment without me. I swear I’ll build you a new kitchen table as soon as I get home, I’ve seen how you look at the old one. I think I may build you a nice big rocking chair too; just like the one your mama had when you were a baby. You know what, just keep a list of things that need fixing. I’ll get started soon as I get off the train. Looks like I have to work on fixing the world right now, though. I know your daddy said I’d never be anybody, but look at me now. Big soldier, off to defend America.

You think our kids will be proud of me? Like I was proud of my dad? He was a Lieutenant, you know. Of course you do. We won’t be able to stay in that tiny apartment once we have kids. We’ll find us a nice house. It’ll have a nice big porch and a big lawn for the kids to play. I’ll build you a nice white fence, too. I think you’d like that. I’ll see you soon, baby.

Love, J

 

* * *

 

 

May 10, 1942

                Doll,

                I miss you so much, baby. The war isn't like I thought it would be. Those newsreels you see don't show what it's really like. I'm glad. It's cold here, all the time. I miss your cooking. That would always warm me right up, and God, army rations aren't anything like what you make. Even that first year in the apartment when you burned everything, even the water. I'd give just about anything for one of those charred biscuits right about now. You remember the first time you made those? When they stuck to the pan and you almost snapped the spatula in half you were so frustrated. I remember hearing you mutter under your breath. I don't know what you said, but I'm sure it wasn't anything nice.

                I ate three of those biscuits. They tasted like bricks. Not to make you feel better, I just loved that exasperated look you got whenever I took a bite. You knew they tasted terrible, but it was adorable when your nose would scrunch up and you rolled your eyes at me. So I just kept eating them. I miss that look. That why do I put up with you? look. I'm sure I'll see it again within a few hours of being home, but I could really use it now, baby. It's been a month since I've seen you.

 

Love, J 

 

* * *

 

 

June 2, 1942

 

                It's summer now. Have you gone to the beach yet? I know we always go to the beach on Coney Island together, but I hope you'll go without me this year. I know you won't get in the water, you never do, but I know how much you love the ocean. You look beautiful with the breeze blowing your hair around. And then you'll get frustrated with it and pull it back so you can see your sketchbook. And you'll squint your eyes and bite your lip as you try to draw the curve of the wave just right. And you'll get charcoal smudged on your forehead. I never know how you manage, but it always gets all over your face. Will you draw me a picture of the ocean when you go? I want to share it with you.

                I know it will be perfect, your drawings are always amazing. I don't know how you do it. I love watching you work. I know I’m always moving, but when you draw me I can be still for hours. Its chaos over here. Draw me when I get home, yeah? I’d like to be still for a while.

                Love, J

 

* * *

 

 

July 4, 1942

                I’m sorry I missed your birthday, baby. I wish I could have been there to sing to you. Right at midnight, like always. Did you go to see the fireworks? You know they set them off just for you. I’d like to think you didn’t miss your own show.

                Happy birthday, doll.

                Love, J

 

* * *

 

 

December 15, 1942

 

You know it’s getting harder to find things to thank God for. But I thank God every day that you'll never know this hell. Sometimes just knowing that you're safe at home gets me through the day. Thinking about you scrubbing the face of that clock you love so much makes me feel a little cleaner, which is hard to imagine considering the crap I'm wading through.

Sometimes at night, my breath freezes before it even leaves my mouth. I think about you most those nights, because I always thought your hair was the sunlight and your smiles feel like warmth. That smile you get when I make some dumb joke, where your nose crinkles and you shake your head at me, like you’re not sure why you put up with me in the first place. I wonder if you ever figured out I said all those things just to feel that smile.

Sometimes at night, there are bombs. They light up the sky with fire and you can feel the sound of them shake your bones. I try to think about all those times I took you to see fireworks on the 4th. Honestly, I can’t remember ever seeing any at all. I was too caught up in the way those big blue eyes of yours lit up, and how you’d always jump at the noise, even though you tried your best to hide it. You swore up and down that there was nothing prettier than fireworks over New York, but I know you’re wrong.

 

Love, J

 

* * *

 

 

February 26, 1943

 

                I have a new mission, baby. I can’t tell you what it is, but I may not be able to write for a while. Most of the time, it feels like I’m not making any difference. It’s hard to remember why I’m even here at all. I don’t remember the pride I felt when I left you. I just remember leaving. And I ask myself why every day. Why didn’t I jump off that train and run back to you.

               But sometimes, I feel like maybe I have a chance to do something good. Maybe there’s a small chance I can do some good in this war. I hope I’m brave enough. I hope I’m strong enough. Lord knows you would be. I think about that sometimes, when I’m looking through my scope. My heart pounds and I ask myself again if I’m doing the right thing. You always know. I don’t know how, but you always know the right thing. I didn’t realize how much I relied on that until I didn’t have you beside me. I try to think about what you’d say, if you were here. If you’d tell me that it’s ok. It was him or me. That it’s ok, I was protecting my CO. That it’s ok; that it’s ok, I still love you.

Sometimes it’s harder to hear what you would say. Sometimes I don’t want to hear at all. Mostly I just want to hear you. I need to hear you again. I can’t remember what my name sounds like on your lips, but I know that’s where I’ll find myself again.   I don’t remember what your laugh sounds like as you dance around our tiny living room, tripping over your two left feet, but I know that’s where I’ll find my smile. I don’t remember what your heartbeat sounds like, but I know that’s the only thing getting me through this damn war. God, I need to hear you.

 

Love, J

 

* * *

 

 

Mrs. Barnes,

 

On behalf of the United States Army, I regret to inform you that your husband, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was reported missing in action during a rescue mission behind enemy lines late last week and is presumed dead. I would like to express my condolences for what I know to be a profound loss. Sergeant Barnes will be remembered as a hero. He demonstrated selflessness and bravery above and beyond the call of duty.

 

I feel as though it is my duty, both to my friend James and you, as his wife, to inform you of the details of his last mission. He and Lieutenant Falsworth were part of a small reconnaissance mission sent to gather information on a presumed German prison. When they arrived, they observed that most of the men there would not survive much longer without medical attention. They made the decision to liberate the small camp themselves. They were able to rescue the 34 men held there, but Lieutenant Falsworth informed me that when Sergeant Barnes went to search a neighboring facility, he failed to return to their rendezvous point. Although Lieutenant Falsworth waited for as long as possible, many of the men required immediate medical attention and he was forced to lead them back to base.

 

I am profoundly sorry for your loss. Sergeant Barnes will be deeply missed.

 

My sincerest condolences,

General C. Philllips

 

March 17, 1943

 

               

* * *

 

 

March 18, 1943

 

God, I don’t know why you took him. I look at his coat in the closet and I don’t know why you took him. I look at his mug in the cupboard and I don’t know why you took him. I look at where he is supposed to be asleep next to me and I don’t know why you took him. He’s gone, God, and I don’t know why.

                I can’t smell him anymore, on his pillow or on his clothes. I pretend I can when I wear his shirts, but I can’t. I don’t even remember. I can’t see him anymore, at the kitchen table reading the paper or on the couch listening to the radio. I pretend I can in the morning before I really wake up, but I can’t. Then I remember. I can’t feel him anymore, his arm around my waist while we dance or his lips against my cheek. I pretend I can, when I fall asleep on a pillow that isn’t his shoulder, but I can’t. And I remember. I can’t hear him anymore, singing in our tiny shower or laughing my laugh, the one where he throws his head back and his eyes squeeze shut. I pretend I can, when I forget and ask him a question, but I can’t. I don’t want to remember. God, I need to hear him.

                You tell him he better have that fence ready for me when I get there. I want a nice white fence around a little house with a big lawn where our kids can play. I want a nice porch where I can put my rocking chair, just like my mama’s. And you tell him I’m proud of him. God, I’m so proud. And you tell him it’s ok; it’s ok, I still love him.

 

Love, S

 


End file.
